Burnt Toast
by Lawless67
Summary: It's the nicest Father's Day card Bruce has ever gotten. Fluff with fluff on top.


"Go on, sir."

Bruce stirs slightly at the low voice–Alfred's–but doesn't yet lift his head. He's sitting at his desk in his favorite study/office within the manor, back slumped, his un-bruised cheek pillow on a forearm. He doesn't move yet, because he's not as young as he once was and he knows that sitting upright will come with the now-familiar twinge in his back and the ache of overworked muscles, and Alfred's silent but firm disapproval because what does one expect when one does not sleep in a proper bed, sir.

So yes, he lays there like a child not yet ready to be dragged from his cozy haven, feeling the age in his bones though he has not yet passed his thirties by. He doesn't like to think of age, because his nighttime profession does not bode well in terms of longevity. It's not a happy thought.

He's not given to happy thoughts this morning, it seems, and he wonders whether Alfred can be put off a bit longer.

But there are voices again to his right, and an odd sort of scuffling, so he gives up on that brief hope quickly, groaning a little in mourning of lost sleep.

To his surprise, the butler makes no comment at the sound. Instead, there is a smallish, very warm hand settled hesitantly on his shoulder. He shifts, and the hand gives an almost imperceptible tremor before stilling.

"Bruce?"

And, yes, of course it is Jason. Jason who is young and precocious and slow to trust. Jason who is still unsure of his place in this house. Jason who he will not say no to.

Bruce stretches gingerly, sits up with a creaking spine. "Hey, kiddo."

The boy looks unsure at the gravel in his voice, standing at his shoulder in patterned pajamas with what looks to be a small splotch of orange juice staining the breast pocket. His hair is swirled into wild tufts of curls, and Bruce softens at how much the child the twelve-year-old looks right now.

"Um, Alfie and I made you breakfast," the boy blurts hurriedly.

"Okay," Bruce says, glancing to where the butler holds his usual tray. His brow furrows because a morning meal is not unusual and Alfred very pointedly stands directly in front of the door. Jason's pajama top is rucked to the side, half falling from a thin shoulder, like there had been a struggle.

The butler clears his throat and Jason fidgets, avoiding eye contact.

"I mean," he edits, "I, uh, I made you breakfast. And–and this," he finishes, shoving something at Bruce's chest.

Bruce, thoroughly bewildered now, takes the crumpled paper his ward offers him and circles his fingers around the trembling wrist, keeping the boy close.

He finally drags his eyes from Jason's odd behavior and _oh_. In his hand is a roughly folded, slightly crushed piece of blue construction paper. Printed on the front, in a young boy's careful hand, are the words Happy Father's Day.

Bruce flips open the card with one hand, the boy's pulse fluttering softly against the other, and reads the neatly printed message on the inside.

 _Bruce,_

 _Before I met you, I didn't have much. I never wanted anything for myself, never thought I could. But you told me I could be anything I wanted to be. And you never said it, but when I'm around you, I feel like maybe I already am something. That's pretty cool. I don't know much about fathers, but that seems like a pretty Dad thing to do. So thanks._

 _Jason_

 _P.S. Sorry I burnt the toast._

"I didn't know what to write," Jason begins nervously, beside him. "And I can't draw worth shit, so it's probably crap, I shouldn't 've–"

Bruce blinks once, hard, and pulls the boy into him. Jason stiffens slightly at the sudden contact then goes lax against the man's shoulder, hands rising tentatively to press against Bruce's back. The boy's wild curls tickle Bruce's cheek, but he doesn't mind.

"Best card I've ever gotten," he says, pulling back slightly.

Jason grins cockily, but Bruce can see the surprised pleasure in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

Alfred finally moves away from his position at the door. "It would be a shame for this wonderful breakfast to go cold, Master Bruce."

"Of course, Alfred."

Bruce straightens as the butler places the tray on the desk. Jason tugs discretely at the hand still circling his wrist, but before he can pull away, Bruce slips his arm around the boy's waist and pulls him into the big chair, settling them hip to hip.

"Plenty enough for us both, I think," he says as Jason leans warm and startled alone his right side.

"Quite right, sir," Alfred supports.

The boy's expression hurts him, just a little, because no child should look so happily staggered at being wanted. But the wavering grin is hidden soon, as Jason reaches for an orange slice.

"Fine," he says, chewing, "but I'm not eating that toast."


End file.
